


Foundling

by lirulin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Baby, Cute, Family, Fatherhood, Gen, Some angst, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 07:23:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20170414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirulin/pseuds/lirulin
Summary: Someone has left a very young baby in Skyhold.





	1. Solas

**Author's Note:**

> A fic written forever ago for the Kink Meme (https://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13696.html?thread=53247616#t53247616). Archived here in as accurate a fashion as I can manage, no editing unless it is for mild typos.
> 
> Original Prompt at the end of this chapter.

It was a function of the Chantry, one that nearly predated the religion that formed Chantry doctrine. The house of the Maker always accepted and cared for those in need, it was a tenet built into the very bricks of Faith, itself. The pious, the charitable, the good were always the last resort of the desperate, of the destitute, and for all the ways the world had changed since the last Inquisition, since the fall of Artlathan, that remained. Skyhold was not a part of the Chantry but that was a technicality. Whether the Inquisitor was comfortable with it or not, the Inquisition was an institution of deep and abiding faith. The deities to whom that faith was devoted varied, as did the degree of individual belief, but Faith was ever present. It was an inevitability, really, that the desperate would flock to their banners, that those in true need would seek them out, and despite constant conflicts of dogma and tradition, Inquisitor Lavellen had welcomed them all. 

Skyhold, despite Lavellen's efforts and the Inquisition’s size, remained extremely remote. 

The fortress was well hidden, removed from roads and civilization by both leagues and centuries. Undertaking the journey to the fortress was no small task and, if only because of that, there was little variation in the needs of those who came seeking aid. The pilgrims that arrived in Skyhold were all adults; the youngest refugees that had ever set foot in the fortress were too old to be considered children. The elderly, the infirm, the very young or truly ailing didn't risk the trip. The weather on the mountain was harsh, the landscape unkind, and the journey treacherous at the best of times; even the healthy, the most fit for the journey, sometimes succumbed to the elements before they saw the Inquisition's standards. 

So, when the gasping, stuttered cry of a babe resounded through the halls, when the high, untrained wailing of a new voice rang out in the depths of the night, it was understandably surreal.

It was Solas who came upon the foundling first. It wasn't a conscious effort on the mage's part, but rather some combination of prudence, providence, and fear that caused it. Whatever hands had clumsily swaddled the infant, had tucked it into a basket like supplies for travel, had belonged to someone with quick and quiet steps, someone fearful but well-intentioned. 

Skyhold had nowhere to welcome the weak, the fragile, and without that there were few places a baby could be left safely and secretly. Commander Cullen's office was the most readily available, the closest to the gatehouse and the lower bailey, but skittish hands would likely avoid so military a location. The main hall was too open and never quite emptied, there was no secrecy to be had while depositing a child there. The kitchens were dangerous and stifling, a hidden child could be lost in the din, one left out could be injured, and the nights were far too cold for a child so young to survive on a doorstep. 

The rotunda, by comparison, was the safest, the quietest, and the most easily accessible location in all of Skyhold. It was, apparently, a simple matter to leave an infant within it and slip away, unnoticed. 

Solas couldn't say when the child had been left, tucked against the table by the door to the ramparts, placed well within the warmth of the room but the barest handful of steps from the exit. He hadn't seen the basket when he'd ascended to the library and he hadn't been above for more than a quarter of an hour. It was possible he'd overlooked it, distracted by study or the fresco on the far wall, but he couldn't be sure. He lifted the haggard basket by its base, moved it gently and crossed the room to the chaise by the doors to the main hall. A second fitful cry peeled up through the draped scrap of torn but clean, thick wool, and he stared in silent awe as a small, reddish fist stretched and managed to push free of the loose cocoon around it.

Solas sat carefully, rested his weight on the very edge of the chaise and settled the basket against his thighs. Impatient fretting, wordless and impossibly tiny, had him instantly enraptured; there was a fine, hesitant tremor that settled in his hands as he carefully parted the fabric. All at once, he forgot himself and the meticulously controlled façade that he maintained came apart. His heart was in his throat; it swelled at the sight of the small, red, pinched face of the child, and pained him sharply as its--_her_ situation was made so utterly, unavoidably clear. 

Her skin was mottled and her features indistinct. Her limbs had not yet learned to uncurl properly and were not entirely under her command. She twisted as she sucked in fresh air, chest stretching outward as her whole body arched, and one arm flailed toward the edge of the basket. At the end of its arc it thumped, quite gently, against the fabric that padded her into place. She cried again, her eyes screwed closed tightly, and it seemed as though her whole head contorted to the motion. The flush that settled over her face stretched down to her chest, across the fat that wrapped her tiny form--

She was so small, so impossibly small, that it defied reason. 

He had seen babies before but this aspect of them, their incomprehensible scale and delicacy, the way they brimmed with as much life and vibrancy as any adult creature, as things that towered over them and dwarfed them in every way...he could never truly fathom how they were possible. To him, this was a wonder; it was more amazing than any other sight in all the world and beyond, and he reverently extended a hand above her. His fingers lighted, just barely, against her balled fist and she flailed it against him. Her wailing stuttered with frustration, with the desperate drawing of a breath, and the gentlest press of his index finger was able to part her balled fingers to touch her palm. Tiny digits wrapped around his finger, gripped him with as much force and coordination as they could muster and, for a moment, his entire being was devoted to that sensation, to feeling it as keenly as he was able. 

She couldn't have been more than days old.

How long had it been since he'd last _seen_ a child this young? …how much longer since he'd held one?

He should have started when the door creaked open, when hurried footsteps and the loud tromping of heavy boots invaded the rotunda. He should have schooled his expression and replaced his careful, calculated countenance, but he couldn't bring himself to break her meager grip. He had done many terrible things in his long life and, without exception, he knew moments like these were the most precious, the rarest of the good. 

He would not defile this one for anything. 

Questions, half-shouted, panicked or confused, fell to stunned silence as each new visitor crossed the threshold into the rotunda. Those who had gathered, who were not abruptly terrified by the presence of an infant, formed a loose perimeter around him. They stood well beyond arm's length, gaping and mesmerized by the tiny body in the basket, by the flushed, wailing face, and Solas almost managed to ignore them in their entirety. When the first of them spoke, addressed him specifically, Solas was surprised enough to tear his eyes away and glance up. The unadulterated adoration on his face must have seemed strange, or it would have, were anyone looking at him.

"...Got a new friend there, Chuckles?" Varric asked, quietly. The dwarf wasn't hesitant so much as he was reluctant to disturb...whatever this was. He stepped forward gingerly and craned his neck in a mild, reflexive attempt to align his face with the babe's. There was wonder in his expression but it was eclipsed by a healthy dose of panic, of bone-deep, consuming worry as he peered down at the basket and the passenger within it. Solas looked back down and, distantly, he heard Varric utter an oath to his Maker.

...yes, it seems I do," Solas answered gently, gradually.

The tiny hand fisted around his finger tugged it down and the whole of him bent forward just slightly to accommodate her desires. The infant could exert little more force than a gentle breeze; she was too young to manipulate anything in this world physically, but she'd already snared his entire being. Varric stared on in still, nearly breathless silence, and Solas knew that she'd already laid claim to him as well. If the dwarf were not so consumed by his worry and if Solas were less selfish, he might have made space for Varric to reach out, to interact with the child as he was...but he didn't. This was a moment he refused to share.

"She doesn't have words. Only feelings without names, fluid and floating. She doesn't need thoughts, nothing chopping it apart, so there aren't any."

Solas was uniquely aware of Cole, he had never overlooked the spirit's presence, had never missed him before, but this distraction was a more than sufficient excuse. 

At some point, Cole had coalesced against his side, his leg and shoulder were flush against Solas's as he peered down at the baby, but even now Solas barely noticed them. The spirit boy’s monotone sounded dreamily untethered as he watched the crying girl. She was barely old enough for tears and, in the midst of her wailing and fussing, one finally gathered at the corner of her eye. It rolled, thin and glittering, over her cheek and along a pointed ear. It was so unbelievably small, little more than a pinch of cartilage, almost indistinguishable from a human, from a dwarf, and Solas's chest constricted as he stared at it. Beside him, sounding mostly himself, Cole muttered questions into the space above the child.

"She needs and she wants but there is no _what_, no _who_, no _ why_. I want to help but I don't know how. I don't know what she doesn't know that she needs to know to know things." Cole's frown was almost audible as he babbled. Solas felt his gaze as it turned to him. "What should I do?"

It had been so very, very long...but memories of these times were not easily tarnished. He had to learn this girl's cries, her sounds and what they meant, but he recognized this one. This one was almost always the same and the thought brought a slight smile to the elf's face. The smile faded as it spread, caught on the melancholy that chased the thought, and he glanced sidelong at Cole as his own thoughts wore away at the moment he'd struggled to preserve. Real considerations, real solutions were necessary and, in fact, imminent. 

He nearly sighed as he considered what to do.

"See if there is any goat's milk, Cole. If there is, warm a mug full and add a few drops of elfroot oil to it." Cole seemed confused by the instructions, by some element of them, but before he could ask for clarification, Varric's hand settled on his shoulder and drew the gangly spirit up, off of the chaise and away from the child. Cole stared at Varric, wide eyed, his expression equal parts confusion and determination, and Varric nodded briefly at Solas.

"I'll go with him," Varric assured Solas plainly and the gradually gathering crowd all up leapt out of the way as the two made for the door.

It would be some time before they'd return and Solas almost relished the waiting. He was loathe to share the child with onlookers, but their silent wonder as they skirted past him or leaned close for a bare moment, was appropriate. He couldn't find it in himself to begrudge them their awe. He had no idea how many people gathered, peered at the babe, and scurried away while he sat there. It could have been all of Skyhold; it probably had been. He didn’t care.

For that first night, Solas spared no attention for anyone or anything besides the infant in his lap.


	2. Sera

Sera was, without question, the heaviest sleeper in the whole of the Inquisition. It was an ability she'd gained from years of city life, one that was bolstered by the plush decorations of her room and her tendency to bury herself in an endless array of blankets. When the baby had woken all of Skyhold, Sera had remained cozy in her bed. When she was finally roused from her deep, lethargic slumber, at an hour that was way too fucking early in the morning, it was to a weirdly polite knocking on her door and some really jarring news. She wasn't fully conscious when she lumbered from her bed and yanked open her bedroom door; ergo, she was definitely not awake enough to deal with the sight that greeted her.

Seeing Solas outside her bedroom door was jarring, all on its own, and Sera blinked heavily at him as her features sluggishly pulled into a scowl. The elfy mage had never stopped in to visit her and she'd chew off a limb before willingly stopping by his rotunda. It was an arrangement, of sorts, the way they emphatically avoided one another and their individual spaces. It worked out well for the both of them, always had, and Sera glared at him groggily as she tried to work out why he'd break that tacit accord. Fortunately or unfortunately, the answer to her unspoken question interrupted the slow grinding of her thoughts. The bundle in his arms, something she hadn't noticed because she'd been far too caught up in the fact that Solas was even _present in her doorway_, let out a fussy little grunting sound and Sera's attention whipped to it.

At first, she thought he was holding a nug--it was just some formless pink thing wrapped in a wool scrap, cuddled against his chest. Solas seemed like the sort of arsehole who would carry a little spoiled nug around in a blanket or a handbag, after all, so nug made sense. She was ready to slam the door in his face when the bundle let out another, clearer, whinier sound and wiggled--_was that a hand?_ Horror stole across Sera's face and the adrenaline that accompanied it chased away the last, comfortable, lingering vestiges of sleep. She clutched the downy blanket around her shoulders tighter and leaned away from the mage in her doorway. 

That was a little hand.

Of course, she couldn't have heard about this bullshit before seeing it, no, had to get it thrust in her face as she woke up. 

"Who in the fuck gave you a baby?" Sera asked, her voice half slurred and half aghast as she stared at the pinkish creature in Solas's arms. A partially formed thought ticked by and her gaze snapped back to Solas's face. "_Andraste's tits_\--you know I was jokin' about you and the 'Quiz rebuilding the empire, _yeah?_"

She blinked and shook her head. No, her gracious ladybits hadn't been in the duff--wait, why did he have a baby? No, no, the important question wasn't why he had a baby or where he got it--the fifty sovereign question was:

"What do you want?" Sera asked, her confusion melting into irritability. 

Through her whole mental crisis Solas had simply stood where he was, his face the picture of placidity. Right this second, his unflappability was starting to piss her off. She'd have slammed the door in his face but, again, she refrained because he was holding a very small, very pinkish baby. The little babe took her loud, angry question badly and let out a little distressed sound.

Shit. 

Sera sighed and stepped aside. The rude gesture she used to welcome Solas into her room was hidden, almost entirely, by the thickness of the blanket draped over her. It was a small victory but, despite the blanket, Solas seemed to notice the gesture and his frown pinched accordingly.

"I came to request a favor." Solas sounded all prim and awake as he stepped daintily into her room. Seeing him in her room was disgusting and Sera didn't bother to disguise the distaste in her expression. "If you are amenable."

Sera groaned and promptly belly flopped back onto her bed. The various paintings and knick-knacks around her bed jingled and clattered in a comfortable, almost musical way as she bounced a little on her mattress. Something wooden fell off a shelf and clattered between something brass and paperish sounding before it hit the floor. Her second groan was muffled by the blankets and the mattress--whatever it was, she'd find it later. After a beat, Solas started talking again and Sera picked her head up off her bed. Solas stopped talking when she did, which was nice, but he was still _here_, which was not.

"_Too many words_," Sera complained sleepily. "You want a favor, yea? Get to the friggin point so I can say yes or no."

"You know how to...make things," Solas said vaguely and Sera craned her head to look back at him. He was standing awkwardly, like he was trying very hard to touch nothing and say nothing about the mess, and he motioned with one hand to, well, basically everything in her room. After a moment, he let the appendage drop back down. "I do not."

Sera cocked a brow at him and rolled on her side to face him. It wasn't often that Solas admitted he didn't know how to do something. That he admitted that and, in the same breath, told her that she had a skill he needed was both rare and deeply amusing. Despite the fact that she looked vaguely like an uncooked shrimp, was utterly disheveled with sleep, and was currently peering up at him from a horizontal position across her bed, Sera was feeling smug. Yeah, of course, Solas could have been trying to trick her to get her to do something for him...but elfy was too prideful to stoop to complimenting her just to manipulate her. She was clearly his _only_ resort and she planned on extorting every last bit of amusement--

Sera's vindictive line of thinking was interrupted when the little bundle in Solas's arms made a very unhappy sound; it wasn't a cry or anything solid and meaningful, just a hitch of breath caught around some sort of nameless whine. It was early enough that the tavern was silent and the yard was still quiet outside her windows; if it had been any louder out she would have missed it. It was a nonsense sound, all babies made them, but it wasn't too hard to figure out what it meant. Sera liked her room cold; she kept the windows open at night to facilitate that. She couldn't have given a druffalo's left nut if Solas froze his elfy ass off, but the little baby in his arms was a different story. 

Sera was many things, but she wasn't an arse to the little people who needed help...and that was a pretty little person.

Damn it.

The rogue let out a heavy, resigned sigh as she hefted herself up into a seated position. Her bed creaked and the edge of the mattress lifted up briefly before flopping back down. After a moment of hesitation, she reluctantly shrugged part of her blanket cocoon off and bared half of her torso. With a hand free she reached blindly alongside her bed, dug around in the shelves behind her stack of paintings, and groped for the right fabrics. After a moment of silent searching, Sera heaved and pulled out two neatly folded stacks of ring velvet and soft fennec felt. She leaned farther and a second foray into the stacks yielded a healthy amount of lustrous cotton and royal seasilk. She dropped the piles on her bed and turned an annoyed look at Solas.

Solas, for the first time in their acquaintance, seemed both astonished and flabbergasted by her. He stared at the neatly piled fabrics and his eyes tracked back to her, wide and surprised. He didn't seem to know what to say and, satisfying as that would have been all on its own, Sera had already moved on. His discomfort was only funny if it was _just his_, but the longer he faffed around in her room was the colder that little baby got. Idiot.

"Yea', yea', horde what I can get, save the good stuff, old habits," Sera said blithely and retracted her arm into the warmth of her blankets. She drew the plush fabric around herself, adjusted it until she was comfortable, and then scowled at him impatiently as he stared at the stack of fine fabrics. "So what'chu need for it? You know little biters 'at young can't have blankies right? They'll smother themselves or get all tangled in it."

"Clothes, hats, the like...I...this is very generous," Solas said, at length, as he looked at the fabric again and Sera huffed in irritation. For once, the mage seemed hesitant, like he didn't want to bother Sera further. It would have been novel, but Solas was taking forever and Sera wanted this to be over with before they had a _moment_. She cleared her throat and his eyes snapped back to her. His next question, thank the Maker, came much more quickly. "But...do you have any plaidweave?"

"Wot?" Sera asked and recoiled slightly. "Can't use the cheap stuff with babies. You want it to scrape its face all up?"

"No," Solas answered quickly, almost in an effort to placate Sera. They were straying very close to a meaningful moment and she didn't like it. "It's just...they see yellow first. It's comforting."

"Fuck, that's all?" Sera asked and let out a heavy, put upon groan as she flopped back onto her bed. "I'll make it some dangly bob looks like a bee, okay? Now get out 'fore you start thanking me and we have to pretend we like each other."

"Of course," Solas answered crisply. Unfortunately, there was a note of new-found fondness in his tone. Sera nearly sneered at it as she closed her eyes.

"Ugh," Sera answered in disgust and motioned to her door with her foot. Solas, asshole that he was, closed it _softly_ as he scarpered. Dick.


	3. Vivienne

Skyhold was a fortress. 

Despite how simple and obvious that fact appeared to be, it had already begun to complicate matters--and it was _Skyhold_ that was the complication, that much was absolutely imperative to remember. If there was any fault to be found in this situation, it certainly didn't lie with the babe...nor her mother, or the hands that left her secure in the rotunda. In fact, the longer Vivienne thought about the girl, the more apparent it became that everyone involved had acted according to their conscience; she couldn't even accuse them of foolishness, not with the state of the world as it was. 

Vivienne sighed as she watched the sky through the paned, crystal windows of her balcony. The tome in her hands had gone unread as she pondered. The pages were familiar, scanning the shapes of the letters was more than enough to jog her memory regarding the contents, but it served well enough as a polite deflection while her mind was elsewhere.

The girl had been in Skyhold for scarcely longer than three full days; her presence was something truly precious but also deeply disquieting. Skyhold was, perhaps, the safest place in all of Thedas...but it was also the location that would inevitably draw the full wrath of the enemy. The Inquisition's forces, an army worthy of any nation, were centered here. There was room for neither error nor tenderness within the fortress's walls...but there was no conceivable location where the child would be safer. On a fundamental level, the fortress was simultaneously the best and worst place for the babe to be; it was a realization that Vivienne had come to long ago and, as the hours passed, she'd watched the denizens of the fortress gradually come to the same conclusion.

Unfortunately, even if another location could be found to house the girl, somewhere more appropriate and kind, there would be no moving her. She was far too young, too vulnerable to survive the trip; to even suggest sending her away, no matter how cautious her guard or careful their path might be, was to advocate for her death. Much as Vivienne disliked the idea of an infant being exposed to the dangers that Skyhold drew, she could not permit the girl to be condemned to an untimely demise by well-intentioned foolishness. She hadn't heard the suggestion spoken aloud, of course, but it was an inevitability. Once the unease in the halls coalesced, it would be a matter of time before someone attempted to send her away.

Vivienne's eyes lighted on the page before her, her expression placid and cold as the snow that blanketed her balcony. 

Inquisitor Lavellan was kind but naïve; Vivienne had no doubt that the woman would side in the infant's favor, once everything came to a head, but there was little sense in allowing things to escalate to that point. Permitting tensions to mount until the Inquisitor had to render judgment would prove detrimental to everyone involved, particularly the child, herself. The question at hand, then, was how to diffuse the situation before it could coalesce into anything..._reprehensible?_

Vivienne calmly turned the page in her tome; her eyes scanned the shapes and sentences out of habit. Below her, the main hall was relatively quiet. The hall wasn't empty, not by any means, but conversations were clipped and short, steps were hurried as they flitted past, and the whole of the building strained under the hush. She could very nearly hear the crackling of Varric's hearth. 

It was no mystery why the hall was empty, everyone was well aware that the child resided in the rotunda and they avoided it with such determination that the room had inadvertently become the focus of all movement in the fortress. Solas's presence alone had never hindered the goings on of Skyhold, but the child drew such attention--

A distant sound interrupted Vivienne's thoughts and startled her out of her reverie. It was jarring, the way that baby's cry stopped all conversation and, indeed, movement in the hall. Everything went still and silent as the small wail, pitched high and without form, resounded through the tower. The stone seemed to amplify it, it had to, she was far too small to be so loud, and Vivienne glanced over her shoulder as she listened.

Despite her carefully cultivated demeanor, Vivienne was not entirely without sympathy. She heard the child and, without her leave, her heart leapt into her throat. Some subconscious part of her immediately tried to determine what she could want--was it food? Surely there had been enough of the formula Varric had concocted at Solas's behest. Was she cold? Solas was not especially invested in material things, it was possible the apostate had nothing to warm her...well, he could have requisitioned a blanket from Cullen but that was hardly the sort of thing appropriate for a child. 

Vivienne glanced back at her chaise and considered the ermine lined throw that was draped across it; it had been a gift from the _Marquise de Falaise_, but it was certainly not indispensable. A properly placed apology, a polite invitation to the right gala, and certainly--

Vivienne stopped herself as she stared at the decorative throw.

Solas's voice didn't carry nearly as well as the babe's, she had to strain to pick his low tones apart from the hushed sounds of the hall. The girl's wailing stuttered and, eventually, dropped away into silence. The silence persisted for a moment before the movement in the hall below, the sounds of uncomfortable conversation, and the quiet shuffling of feet picked up again. She listened as they did, keenly aware of her position in the hall, and Vivienne felt...

For lack of a more apt description: immeasurably silly.

She had played The Game for far too long, she decided, and carefully closed the book in her hands. She set it aside as she rose and, with neither pause nor haste, moved to retrieve the throw from her chaise. The fur was soft, plush, and quite certainly more expensive than everything Solas owned; it was a symbol of Vivienne's power, her influence, and a subtle reminder of her station. When she had assembled this space she had artfully draped it across the chaise and hadn't paid it any mind since then. It was decoration, one small piece that she moved around the board as she wished...but it was also just a blanket. It was a bauble, a trinket, and served no purpose beyond existing and being visible.

The simple possibility that the infant had need of it was, all at once, more important than anything it could represent on her behalf. 

Vivienne folded the throw and, as she stared at the opulent gilded embroidery that ran along the edges of the navy silk, she found the solution she'd been seeking. This blanket was little more than a token, a piece of a vast collection, _mise-en-scène_ that had reminded nobility, mages, and templars alike that she was to be respected. Now? Vivienne was powerful enough that the facade derived its context from her; this blanket was a symbol because she had owned it, not because of who had gifted it to her. The smile that settled on her face was honest and she let it linger as she moved along the balustrade, as she walked gracefully toward the steps. Briefly, she considered traveling through the library but, in this, visibility would prove invaluable.

There was no need to scan the hall, the moment she descended the stairs Vivienne knew that all eyes were on her. She rarely walked the main floor, not if she could avoid it, and she had never used this particular entrance into the rotunda. That she chose to do so, now, was more than a curiosity. Varric watched her as she approached his hearth. When she greeted him, he spared a glance at the blanket in her arms and greeted her in kind. Their conversation was of little substance but Vivienne held it with calm, pleasant ease. When she excused herself she could see that Varric had already begun to put together what she was doing.

The rotunda was as it always had been. It was warm, relatively still, and utterly exposed. Vivienne cast a lingering look over the frescoes that adorned the wall and, at the same time, took in the state of the room. Solas stood at his desk, his attention focused wholly on the basket atop it. Vivienne's expression pinched in disdain reflexively--she knew the apostate had a more..._reserved aesthetic_, but this? This basket was new. It appeared sturdy and well kempt, yes, and he'd put some effort into decorating, it if the lumpy yellow and black toy dangling from the handle was any indication...but it was still a basket.

How she refrained from sighing, she would never know.

"You are quite adept at calming her cries," Vivienne said lightly, as she moved alongside his desk. Solas glanced up, little more than a quick shift of his eyes before he looked back at the babe, and his brows rose in silence. Vivienne paused as she stood above the basket; the girl, tiny and wrapped in a simple velvet dress, fussed silently. Her arms curled against Solas's hand and her cheek pressed, almost fretfully, against the mage's fingers. There was a startling tenderness in the way his thumb smoothed over her cheek, in the delicacy he employed with a creature his hand nearly eclipsed, and Vivienne was impressed.

"Did you require something?" Solas asked quietly. His tone held no curiosity or interest, gentled though it was. He did not care for her and the only thing restraining his expression of that opinion was the child in front of him.

"Oh no, my dear," Vivienne assured him almost fondly and smiled down at the babe. The endearment was strange and Solas's hand froze as she said it; the look of suspicion he gave her was brief but obvious. He was silent but not expressly unwelcoming as he waited for her to continue. Vivienne had already taken as close a look around the room as she required but, for the sake of it, she looked again. A mild frown tugged at her features, it was not half so sincere as her smile had been. "I was reading, watching the snow, and it occurred to me that our newest guest might find the weather disagreeable."

Solas stiffened as she leaned closer to the child, she didn't take his reaction personally. Uncertainty, particularly when one was invested in the well-being of another, could distress even the most reasonable people. Vivienne looked at the infant for a few moments longer and then drew herself back up. When she turned her gaze on Solas, the apostate was already staring at her, subtle lines of confusion drawn on his face.

He was clever, though Vivienne wasn't inclined to admit as much aloud, but he'd been absorbed in the girl. He still was. She doubted he'd even given thought to her place in Skyhold, or to the ripples her presence would cause. Her expression softened, just slightly, as she set the folded throw on his desk. His eyes followed her arm and, as he tried to understand her gift, Vivienne fell back into a more familiar cadence.

"But I see that her accommodations are _truly lacking,_" Vivienne announced with a note of distaste. Solas's eyes snapped back to her face and the elf looked torn, like he wasn't certain whether to take offense or not. Vivienne didn't give him the chance to decide. "Take this, she may keep it--consider it an apology for the dreadful number of baskets she's been asked to tolerate."

Solas took offense at that but, as quickly as the irritation danced across his face, amusement chased after it. The elven apostate was not a man easily chided, and he certainly wasn't the sort to suffer embarrassment, but Vivienne caught the light color that rose in his face as he glared at her. It was more thanks than she expected and considerably more than she required. She turned on her heel with casual grace and headed toward the ramparts.

"I shall see to finding her something a bit more fitting," Vivienne said, offhandedly, at a volume that made their conversation quite easy to overhear. "I trust you'll console her while the situation is rectified?"

"Of course," Solas answered easily. The volume of his voice must have startled the infant because she fussed loudly. One of her legs, pink and uncoordinated, kicked upward. He muttered a quiet string of elven as he bent over the basket again, their conversation neatly and completely set aside. Vivienne was surprised at how swiftly his expression gentled and how utterly he bared himself to the child. It was a rare sight, seeing a face so open and sincere, and Vivienne nearly forgot herself.

"Madame de Fer." The lilt of an Antivan accent drew Vivienne's attention and she turned to face the door to the ramparts. Standing just beyond the threshold of the stairs, with a light flush and a breathless, beaming smile that spoke of how she must've scurried down from the library, Josephine greeted her. 

"Ah, Ambassador Montilyet, precisely the woman I require," Vivienne responded pleasantly and motioned to the door. Confusion darted across Josephine's face, but she allowed herself to be ushered nonetheless. "Do come along, I must have a word with Warden Blackwall, and then I expect he will require materials."

"Materials?" Josephine asked as they stepped out into the dull evening light and the falling snow.

"Why yes, my dear, one cannot be expected to cobble together a respectable cradle from cast-off lumber or, Maker forbid, _pine._" 

The door to the rotunda closed behind her and, with a rush of warm air, Vivienne caught her title hidden in the soft elven that Solas cooed to the babe. Her smile was needlessly saccharine, after that, but not wholly inexcusable. 

"And do remind me to write a thank you note to the _Marquise de Falaise,_ if you would."

**Author's Note:**

> Original Prompt:  
Solas Takes Care of a Baby  
So I have this headcanon that back in his Fen'Harel days, Solas was kinda like Oberyn Martell and his Sand Snakes, and had a lot of kids with different women.  
One day, a baby is left at Skyhold and to everyone's surprise, he takes it under his wing and is really, really good at taking care of it. Cue the cast watching him care for the child and coming up with wild theories and then one day somebody just asks and he's like, "I was a father once."  
Group reactions and interactions with the bb are love. I know this prompt is a little silly and I don't mind crack, but I would prefer at least a semi-serious fill.


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